


Ygdra

by fickleminder



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, kiralfonse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-08-03 23:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16335788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fickleminder/pseuds/fickleminder
Summary: No matter what world they end up in, or when they come, Kiran is there.(A time traveler/immortal-ish AU.)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Normally I prefer to write one-shots but let's see how this thing turns out.

The first time is an accident.

Little Sharena pitches forward with a startled yelp, small hands wrapped around Fensilir, the lance’s weight toppling her over. Alfonse reaches out to steady her, prepared to cushion his sister against the cold stone ground. A breathless “oof” is knocked out of him when Sharena collides with his chest and they fall together, sinking into a bed of wildflowers.

There doesn’t seem to be anyone for miles around, let alone any sign of the royal armory they are not supposed to be in just a second ago.

Alfonse takes Sharena’s hand in his as they wade through the tall grass, his sister’s tears drying under the low afternoon sun. Fensilir leaves a wobbly trail in the dark soil and the siblings walk for what feels like hours until finally – _finally!_ – a small cottage comes into view at the edge of the seemingly endless meadow.

The woman nursing a cup of tea on the front porch looks up in surprise at the sound of their approach.

“Oh my, aren’t you a little young to be traveling by yourselves?” She says, abandoning her drink on the rocking chair in favor of ushering two exhausted children indoors and away from the heat.

“I’m ten!” Sharena huffs indignantly, lessons about talking to strangers and following them home instantly forgotten.

The woman laughs kindly. “Of course, my apologies. Can I get both of you something to drink?”

“Who’s asking?” Alfonse frowns.

“Call me Kiran.”

She seems harmless, the prince decides over his cup of freshly brewed tea, having watched her prepare a new pot and take the first sip. Still, he keeps Fensilir by his side and Sharena even closer as he observes their host. Kiran is either unaware of his wary gaze or choosing to ignore it, busy telling Sharena about the flowers growing in the back yard instead.

“It’s getting late,” Kiran comments when the sun begins to dip below the horizon. “You two best head on home now.”

Sharena’s relaxed demeanor cracks. “We don’t know how!” She wails, seeking her brother’s hand for comfort, which he gladly gives. “Alfonse told me not to touch Fensilir but I wanted to because it was going to be mine and then we ended up here and now we’re lost and – and –”

“Don’t worry, I’m here to help.” Kiran assures her, patting her on the back as she hiccups. The woman meets Alfonse’s eyes and beckons him over.

He scoots closer to them, bringing Fensilir forward when Kiran gestures to it.

“Hold on tightly to that lance and each other,” she instructs, guiding the siblings’ hands to grasp it firmly. “Now, close your eyes and think of… Let’s see, how about your bedroom?”

Alfonse blinks and a split second of weightlessness later, he finds himself bouncing on a bed – his bed. Sharena squeals in delight and keeps on jumping; Alfonse is too relieved to chase her away.

A muted thud from the carpeted floor reminds him that they have a missing artifact to return to the armory, but for now, he’s just glad to be home.


	2. Part 1

The ceremony ends with King Gustav bestowing Fensilir on Sharena. Alfonse watches proudly as she descends the steps, birthright in hand. His own rests against his hip, sheathed.

In preparation for their time on the throne, it is tradition for members of the Askran royal family to spend several years visiting kingdoms beyond their own, honing their skills from the finest warriors and studying different political systems to understand how to better rule their people. Now that Sharena is officially of age, she can accompany her brother and travel alongside him.

Alfonse smiles when he sees their mother embracing her. He can faintly hear the queen telling her to be careful, to stay close to him and follow his lead. As though sensing his gaze, Sharena turns her head and sends him a playful wink, discreetly pressing a finger against her lips, an action that Alfonse mirrors. It goes without saying that Sharena’s upcoming trip will not be her first, nor her second or even her tenth.

If curiosity killed the cat, then Folkvangr and Fensilir brought it back. Sharena is eager to go on adventures and meet new people, and while Alfonse has a responsibility to keep her out of trouble, he, too, yearns to explore and learn outside of the castle walls. Both of them are young; they have plenty of time and no deadlines to meet, yet the freedom to travel is not unlimited.

Case in point: the king and queen, their days now too busy with a kingdom to run, the stones embedded within their own artifacts dull with years of inactivity.

 

* * *

 

(They don’t recognize Kiran the second time.

Granted, the face offering them a cool drink in the midst of the bustling marketplace is partially obscured beneath a straw hat, but broad shoulders and a stubble-lined jaw quickly dispel any doubts as to the gender of the merchant, who is definitely _not_ a woman with auburn hair and eyes as green as the meadow her cottage was surrounded by.

“Good to see you again Alfonse, Sharena.” He says, grinning at the confused look the siblings exchange. “It’s me, Kiran.”

“You’re not Kiran.” Sharena shakes her head. “Kiran’s a lady who lives in a field and grows flowers.”

“Well, we can’t all be royalty here.” The merchant rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Anyway, the weather’s scorching today. Would you like some juice? Freshly squeezed, I promise.”

“No, thank you.” It’s disconcerting enough that this stranger knows their names, Alfonse thinks, tugging his sister away from the stall. No way are they accepting anything from him, regardless of how thirsty they may or may not be. “Sharena, we’re leaving.”

“Hold on, two things before you go.” The expression on not-Kiran’s face hardens as he zeroes in on the sword hidden under Alfonse’s cape. “First, the golden rule: one traveler per artifact. You can get away with just one for now – you two are small enough that Folkvangr can carry both of you at once – but don’t push your luck, okay? Bring Fensilir along next time.

“And second…” Not-Kiran pauses, furrowing his brows thoughtfully. Alfonse and Sharena hold their breaths, anticipating more stern advice from the merchant who knows too much. “I was going to say you’ll get used to this, but I changed my mind.” He gestures to himself and shrugs helplessly, his lips curling back into an easy smile.

Not-Kiran points towards one of the streets they have yet to explore. “If you’re looking for souvenirs, there’re a couple of nice shops that way which you might want to check out. Ask for my friend, Abel. He’ll show you around.”

Alfonse thanks him politely and not-Kiran waves at them as they leave, but not before the prince notices a white cloak with gold trimmings tied around his waist.

The exact same cloak, Alfonse realizes belatedly, that had been draped across the back of a rocking chair on a porch facing the sunset.)

 

* * *

 

They learn to keep an eye out for that cloak.

It’s the one thing that remains the same. Kiran, on the other hand, changes all the time. Alfonse and Sharena have yet to come across similar – let alone identical – versions of their mysterious friend. Tall or short, male or female (or somewhere in-between), pale or tan or brawny or lean… There’s no telling what the next one will be.

(Alternatively, Kiran will recount some embarrassing tale from the siblings’ previous visits to prove their identity:

Like how loud Sharena shrieked when the friendly big cats she had been playing with suddenly weren’t big cats anymore.

Or when Alfonse inadvertently called a lord – the same one who would later give him lessons on wielding Folkvangr – a moron.

And not to forget the time Sharena nearly walked into the wrong bath house during a solo trip, and Alfonse finally learns why his sister had insisted on tagging along with him for weeks after.)

Regardless, despite the strangeness of the land they arrive in, despite the unfamiliarity of the face that greets them, Alfonse and Sharena learn they can always count on Kiran to guide them, to tell them about whatever time and place their artifacts have brought them to, and point them to wherever they want to go.

Sights to see, things to do, people to meet… Kiran knows them all.

 

* * *

 

The fifth time Kiran’s attention strays, Alfonse finally gives in to the urge to turn around.

Several tables behind them is a gray-haired man with a shield mounted on one shoulder and a sword strapped to his hip. A soldier, he looks like, and a flirtatious one at that.

“Friend of yours?” Alfonse asks, raising an eyebrow at the sight of yet another woman turning her nose up at the man, who pouts briefly in response but appears mostly unfazed; he waves her on her way with a cheeky grin.

“Not really.” Kiran sips at her honeyed tea and sighs. “I guess I’ve just been distracted. Sometimes I’m reminded of how big the universe really is.”

“Oh?”

“Why do you look so surprised? You and Sharena have been traveling for years now. There are others too, you know. They just don’t travel the way you do.”

Alfonse’s interest is piqued. “How, then?”

Kiran shrugs. “Something that runs in the family, intervention from other gods… Plenty of ways.”

She doesn’t seem inclined to share any more than that and resumes squinting at the man. Alfonse hopes the soldier won’t mistake her gaze for interest, and unconsciously shifts his weight to position his upper body _just so_.

After all, it’s only polite that Kiran pays attention to her one companion during this trip, though the prince can’t quite convince himself that the bitter taste on his tongue is from his over-steeped tea.

 

* * *

 

No matter what world they end up in, or when they come, Kiran is there.

They’re like a focal point of sorts; while Alfonse and Sharena can never tell what their destination will be, they know it’s someplace Kiran is close.

The siblings ask again, every now and then. _Who are you? Why are the artifacts drawn to you? How do your alternate selves interact across different worlds?_

Because how else can Kiran bandage Alfonse’s scraped knee with the same handkerchief tucked away in the prince’s pocket, or wear the friendship bracelet Sharena made years ago in a different realm, or show off pressed flowers from that bouquet the siblings had presented them with during the Day of Devotion when they live in a barren desert?

Kiran shrugs and looks away.

“I’m just me,” they say softly, as though those three words should explain everything.

It is over dinner in their little workshop, sitting at a handcrafted wooden table with three convenient seats, that Alfonse realizes Kiran’s eyes don’t change either. The shape and color do, but when he looks at them – really _looks_ them in the eye – somehow he just knows.

Windows to the soul and all that.

Sharena breaks the spell with a badly disguised cough. Kiran flushes a pretty shade of pink. Alfonse clears his throat and pointedly averts his gaze for the rest of the evening.

 

* * *

 

Journeys don’t always go smoothly.

Sharena fells two myrmidons with one swing of Fensilir and pivots to block a third coming from behind. Not far from her, Alfonse is busy engaging an axe-wielding mercenary while Kiran goes hand-to-hand with a thief.

The rest of the bandits are dead or have retreated. Alfonse’s opponent drops in a crumpled heap and he hears the last myrmidon joining his brethren on the ground, but just when he thinks the fight is won, Kiran cries out. Whirling around, he spots a bloody dagger pinned to a nearby tree, the thief’s outstretched arm, Kiran reeling backwards and –

Alfonse sees red, literally.

Half of Kiran’s face is a mess. They clutch at it with a gloved hand to cover the wound, but still it drips and darkens the hem of their gold-trimmed sleeve. Ignoring Sharena’s worried gasp, Alfonse rushes in to cut the thief down before he can land a fatal blow.

Mother hen that she is, Sharena fusses over Kiran and drags them to sit by the side of the beaten road, trying unsuccessfully to examine their injury.

“I’m fine, I’m fine! Calm down, Sharena!” Kiran laughs – _laughs!_ – as they bat her away. “It’s not as bad as it looks, I promise. There’s no need to – OW! Alfonse!”

The prince’s hands are shaking when he tears Kiran’s face free and slaps a wet handkerchief against their cheek, tossing an uncapped waterskin aside. Kiran winces, but otherwise doesn’t resist as he cradles their head and wipes gently. His careful ministrations uncover a thin line stretching from their jaw to just below their temple, a wound too superficial to have bled so excessively, but Alfonse knows what he saw.

“See? Just a scratch.” Kiran pats his hand comfortingly as he traces the line with his thumb, the feather-light touch eventually coming to brush against the corner of their lips. “Sorry about your handkerchief though. I’ll wash it and give it back after we return to the inn.”

Alfonse thinks of the worn one hidden in his room – bloodstains faded but not fully gone even after a decade – and says “keep it”.

Kiran smiles.

 

* * *

 

They study politics with the twin rulers of a sunny kingdom, learn tactics from the shrewd strategist in a mercenary group, and train under a calm general with her two young students. When it comes to expanding their repertoire of weaponry, Sharena discovers she has a disposition for magic, while Alfonse finds he can be pretty handy with an axe.

Horseback riding lessons take place on the rolling hills of Zofia, where Kiran introduces them to a pair of retired, married knights. Alfonse and Sharena spend several weeks there learning, to varying degrees of success but equally sore backsides.

At the end, Kiran challenges them to a race. “Last one to the crest of that hill has to untack all the horses!” She yells, hoisting herself up onto the saddle with ease. Her brown mare trots to the starting line so smoothly that Alfonse has no doubt they’ve been doing it for years. Unfair advantage aside, he barely has time to wonder why Kiran didn’t just teach them herself before the countdown ends and they’re off.

Sharena falls behind after a while, deliberately or not Alfonse can’t tell (though he knows he’ll owe her big time if it’s the former), but he can’t quite bring himself to care at the moment, not when all he can focus on is Kiran laughing as she speeds ahead, her ombré hair and white cloak billowing in the wind behind her.

 

* * *

 

As resourceful as it is to learn from other kingdoms, future rulers should know their own as well.

Which is why one afternoon finds Alfonse in the castle’s library, catching up with his tutor’s assignments. His study partner’s already left; completely engrossed with reading, Alfonse takes a while to notice that the restless fidgeting across from him has disappeared entirely.

Seeing an empty chair surrounded by a much smaller pile of unopened books tempts the prince to take a break. He’s been at it for a good part of the day now, surely he can afford an hour or two of rest?

But then Alfonse thinks of his father, of the king’s expectations and disapproving stares, and promptly reburies himself in hardcovers, nudging Folkvangr further under the table and out of sight.

Sharena returns at the end of the day with a little treat for him. “From Kiran,” she says, “as a reward for working so hard!”

The pastry is brown and shaped like a miniature brick. It fits neatly on the square of Alfonse’s palm, radiating warmth through the thin napkin it is nestled in. Alfonse takes a curious bite and moans as the cake practically melts in his mouth. Flavor bursts on his tongue, rich and sweet, but not overly so.

“Delicious, isn’t it? It’s called a chocolate brownie. Kiran baked it himself too! He used a special recipe with a secret ingredient.” Sharena leans forward and lowers her voice to a whisper: “Lots and lots of love~”

Alfonse chokes.


	3. Part 2

War comes to Askr.

Traveling is a luxury Alfonse and Sharena can no longer afford, not when there are troops to be mobilized and villages to be protected. King Gustav leads the fight against the Emblian invaders while the queen holds down the fort back in the capital, but the toll of battle only continues to rise as the months pass.

More and more soldiers fall every day, and morale plunges with every inch of land they have to retreat from. The Askran forces are being pushed back and they know it; no amount of rallies or propaganda can change the fact that they’re _losing_.

The royal siblings join the fight, leading smaller armies of their own to defend their kingdom, but it isn’t until they see familiar faces behind enemy lines that it hits them just how dire the situation is.

Veronica’s warriors are bound by contracts, forced to fight a war they have no reason to be involved in. Death is the only way out, but even though Alfonse and Sharena are more than capable of granting it, the siblings simply cannot bring themselves to cut down their innocent friends.

Too high is the price of blood for freedom.

They lose the battle that day. Alfonse goes down with one of Lyn’s arrows buried in his side while Sharena is very nearly decapitated by Ephraim’s lance. Olwen’s lighting magic rains from the heavens as Anna screams for the survivors to fall back.

Barely a week into their recovery, their father sends for them.

 

* * *

 

Ancient Askran scrolls tell of a legendary relic with great power. It is said that a god slumbers within, one with the ability to summon heroes from other worlds.

Lost in the winds of time and space, Breidablik had been created to harness the power of interdimensional travel, crafted from the very same source that gave the Askran royal family’s sacred artifacts their blessings.

This relic – this weapon – Gustav explains, is the key to winning the war. His words echo with finality in the empty council room.

“It’ll only take one trip to find it,” he says, silencing Alfonse and Sharena mid-protest. The king, suddenly looking very old and very tired, rubs at the faded stone embedded in the pommel of his sword. “ _They’ll_ know.”

 

* * *

 

The door is already unlocked when they arrive.

Sitting on the table is a pot of tea, three cups, and four elixirs, but more enticing is the blazing fire in the hearth, a warm balm against the chill seeping under their skins, instantly melting away the stubborn chunks of snow clinging to their hair and ill-suited clothes.

“If you think this is cold, wait till you see winter.” Kiran remarks as he emerges from a side room carrying small towels for them to dry off with. “Some might argue that Regna Ferox is like this all year round, but trust me, there’s a difference.”

Even indoors, Kiran is dressed for the storm outside. His signature white cloak is lined with fur and wrapped tightly around him. Alfonse and Sharena have seen that cloak countless times before, but only now do they make the connection between the gold patterns on it and the etchings on the walls of Zenith’s temples.

Kiran takes a seat and nudges the potions towards them. “You two look like you could use these,” he says softly.

The siblings drink quietly, taking the time to gather their thoughts. The elixirs do wonders for their wounds from that horrible battle, but mentally they have barely begun to recover. Kiran waits patiently, checking the leaves in the pot every minute or so. He nods and listens when Alfonse and Sharena finally tell him about the war, about the lives lost and friends trapped, about a legend with gods and heroes and their father’s orders to retrieve a lost relic.

“We were told that you know where to find Breidablik,” Alfonse finishes, the expression on his face uncertain yet hopeful.

Kiran is silent. His gaze remains fixed on the wisps of steam curling from the spout of the pot, watching them drift and fade away. Then, slowly, he reaches into his cloak and pulls out a gun-shaped contraption, white and gold.

“Is that…?” Sharena makes an aborted motion towards it, but freezes when Kiran speaks.

“There’s a reason why I don’t exist in your world. Having Breidablik so close to its source… It’s not safe.”

“We won’t let anything happen to it,” the prince insists, heedless of the warning. “With Breidablik, we can finally bring an end to the war.”

“You don’t understand what you’re asking for!” Kiran’s grip on the relic tightens. “My purpose is to guide travelers, not help them fight.”

“It’s not like we’re forcing you onto the battlefield, we just want Breidablik!” Sharena snaps back, frustrated. “If you won’t give it to us, then we’ll find another Kiran who will!”

“That won’t change a thing. There may be many versions of me, but there’s only one Breidablik. If you take it from them, you’re taking it from me as well.”

“We’ll return it as soon as the war is over, we promise.” Alfonse is practically begging now, so desperate that Sharena half-expects him to go down on his knees. “Kiran, this relic is the last chance we have. Help us, _please_.”

Kiran says nothing for a while. Sharena wants to cry; Breidablik is literally within their grasp, but Kiran doesn’t seem to care that this may be the last time he’ll ever see them again. They’ll have no choice but to face their friends on the battlefield now, kill or be killed, and the traitorous thought of taking Breidablik by force makes Sharena’s stomach churn –

“Keep it safe, and bring it back soon, you hear?”

He gives them the remaining elixirs too, adding another two bottles for good measure. The tea is left untouched as he sees them off.

“Thanks again, Kiran.” Sharena hugs him gratefully. “We don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“Be careful, you two,” Kiran sighs. “Stay safe, alright?”

“We will.” Alfonse puts a hand out before changing his mind, yanking Kiran close for a hug of his own. The other man goes still, but only for a fraction of a second before returning the embrace just as tightly.

The stones in Folkvangr and Fensilir begin to glow, and not once does Kiran break eye contact with the siblings as they take their leave. He waves at them, a small, sad smile on his face.

“Goodbye.”

 

* * *

 

Breidablik doesn’t seem to require any form of ammunition at all, though the relic does tend to heat up dangerously after five consecutive summons without pause. Nevertheless, it’s comforting to see familiar faces (and then some) on their side not actively trying to kill them. Gustav gives the heroes the option to return home if they do not wish to fight of course, but true to their name, they gladly lend their strength to Askr’s cause.

With their help, another way to free the captive warriors under Embla’s control is discovered: they will be released from their contracts if they are defeated in battle and their weapons broken by that of the summoned. No fatalities necessary.

Askr wins, eventually. Even with brave heroes fighting alongside them, it takes strategy and time to regain the ground their forces had lost. Fortunately, a few of the summoned turn out to be talented tacticians in their own right, and it is without a doubt that their collective efforts contribute significantly to ending the conflict as swiftly as possible.

Word of Breidablik’s power inevitably spreads. No one knows how Veronica managed to snare her warriors in the first place, but with the legendary relic on the scene, honestly no one really cares. Between negotiations and rebuilding, there is now also the pressing need to protect the divine weapon responsible for turning the tide of the war.

It’s too valuable to even leave the castle, the king declares, so much so that Alfonse and Sharena have no choice but to make their next trip empty-handed. At the very least, they can let Kiran know that the war is over, that Breidablik is safe, and that whatever danger Kiran had warned them about didn’t come to pass.

Maybe, just maybe, they can convince Kiran to return to Zenith with them as well?

In the first town Folkvangr and Fensilir bring them to, no one has ever heard of anybody called ‘Kiran’.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

(They’ve never said ‘goodbye’ before.)

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

_“Don’t know, don’t care.”_

_“Ain’t nobody with that name in these parts.”_

_“No such person here, kid.”_

_“Our apologies, we hope you find your friend soon.”_

_“Sorry, what do they look like again?”_

_“Just leave it, missing people are usually dead anyway.”_

 

* * *

 

Ancient Emblian scrolls tell of a legendary relic with power too great to be contained in a single world.

Ygdra’s worshippers sealed him inside to keep its chaotic powers at bay, and it is said that he threw himself into the Tempest – the very same source from which the relic had been forged, and the gateway to infinite worlds beyond – to prevent it from falling into the wrong hands.

Breidablik feels warm to the touch from atop its perch on the pedestal, guarded under lock and key in the royal armory. But such security is no match for a certain pair of siblings with more than a decade’s worth of experience at sneaking in.

“The texts claim that Ygdra is the only thing stopping Breidablik from destroying Zenith.” Sharena looks at her brother worriedly. “But the longer it stays in the same world as its source, the more its power grows.”

Alfonse reflects on the past few weeks, remembering the panic and dread that had poisoned every single trip they’ve made. Tens of worlds visited, hundreds of people questioned, and yet no matter how thoroughly they search, Kiran is nowhere to be found. “We brought back a god to help us win the war,” he murmurs, “and now Kiran is gone. I wonder…”

Sharena goes white. “You don’t think…”

There’s an almost imperceptible crack running down Breidablik’s barrel. It was barely half an inch in length the first time Alfonse spotted it; it’s at least ten times longer now. That can’t be a good sign, nor can the fact that Breidablik is almost always heated up despite the lack of summoning.

Alfonse’s thumb traces the crack from one end to the other, the thin line so seemingly innocuous, and yet he swears he can only feel it widening under his touch.

 

* * *

 

Anna covers for them.

“Who does the king think he is?” She scoffs. “Breidablik’s power is out of control. No spell or ritual can possibly stabilize it for anyone’s use. Still, it seems a shame to get rid of it just like that. Askran scholars have spent decades searching for this lost relic, you know.”

“I don’t think it was ever lost, Commander.” Alfonse replies easily, not even offended by the slight against his father. “Besides, we made a promise to return it.” _A promise that should have been kept months ago,_ he reminds himself.

On the outskirts south of the kingdom lies an ancient temple from which the powers of the Tempest – too dangerous to access directly – can be tapped into. It is in this temple that the artifacts crafted for the Askran royal family receive their blessings, and, if the legends are to be believed, Breidablik was forged.

Alfonse recites an incantation which opens a grey portal with no discernable location on the other side. From out of nowhere, a storm whips up inside the temple, sharp and cold, forcing the siblings to hunker down to avoid getting swept away.

“Do you think it’ll be that easy?” Sharena shouts, her voice barely audible in the midst of the roaring gales. “We just… toss it in and Kiran will come back?”

In contrast to the biting chill, Breidablik sears Alfonse’s skin in his tight, gloved grip. The prince knows his father wants to keep the relic as a safeguard in the event Askr is ever threatened with war again, but he also knows the king has been lording it over the Emblians, drunk with victory and power. It’s a slippery slope with only madness and chaos at the foot. If scattering Breidablik’s powers to the winds of time and space is the only way to prevent that, then so be it.

Besides, if it lets them see Kiran again…

“One way to find out!” Alfonse yells back, and throws.


	4. Epilogue

The cottage has clearly seen better days.

Pockets of weeds litter the once immaculate garden and mold covers the wooden steps leading to the main door. The fences can use a new paint job and the front porch looks like it hasn’t been swept in months.

Their footsteps kick up tiny dust clouds and leave visible trails as they cautiously make their way inside. The interior is… not exactly derelict, but not quite habitable either. With little else to do, Alfonse and Sharena roll up their sleeves and get to work.

Four hours later, the cottage is somewhat decent again. Even if it’s long abandoned, passing travelers will at least be able to find serviceable shelter here. After washing up, the siblings retreat to the kitchen to prepare a drink and eat their packed lunch.

The whistling kettle almost drowns out the faint whicker of an approaching horse. Sharena has just filled the teapot when heavy hoof beats come to a stop. Alfonse peers out a window and nearly tears the front door off its hinges in his mad dash outside, with Sharena hot on his heels.

Kiran has seen better days too. Sunken eyes and pale skin with a dirty white cloak hanging off her figure, hunched with exhaustion and way too thin for their liking, she looks like she hasn’t eaten or slept in a week. Seated atop an old brown mare, she holds herself gingerly and stares in surprise when two travelers practically screech to a stop in front of her.

“We, uh…” Alfonse falters, not quite sure how to get words past the sudden lump in his throat.

_We’re sorry, we’re glad you’re back, we’ll never take Breidablik from you ever again –_

“We made tea.” Sharena offers instead, squeezing her brother’s shoulder reassuringly.

Kiran blinks, stares some more, and blinks again. “Just in time too,” she finally says, her lips curling into a warm smile so achingly familiar that the siblings can weep. “Now you can help me finish these.” She lifts the cloth over the basket in her lap and the scent of freshly baked goods wafts out, making their mouths water.

Sharena takes the basket and hurries indoors to set the table. Alfonse helps Kiran down and supports her weight when she leans on him, lacing their fingers together as they follow behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
